Save Me
by Wine-into-Water
Summary: Wincest. This time Sam might have asked Dean for more then he can give. A follow up to 'Bad Person'


**Title** – Save Me  
**Rating** – R  
**Fandom** - Supernatural  
**Characters** – Sam/Dean Winchester  
**Warnings** – under aged, angst, Wincest  
**Summary** – This time Sam might have asked Dean for more then he can give.  
**Authors Note** – This is a follow up to **Bad Person**. It's probably better if you read that one first but you could get by without it.  
All constructive criticism welcomed.  
**Disclaimer** – Sadly nothing in the Supernatural fandom belongs to me. Kripke, CW and others that are not me own the boys. I only borrow them to play with.  
**Beta** - The very awesome Sailorhathor

**Bad Person: Save Me**

You've been away.

Gone on a hunting trip for a month, a hunting trip where the only thing being hunted, was you.

Your father doesn't blame you, exactly. He knows it can't be your entire fault; after all, he was the one that taught you to always take care of your little brother. That doesn't stop him from trying to beat some sense into you. Enough sense that it takes Bobby three weeks to mend you back to health before dropping you off.

Sammy is happy to see you. Drops whatever it is he was doing as soon as you walk in the door. As always, he's concerned and his hands begin to trace over healing cuts and faded bruises. Soft words of worry are spoken to you but you reassure him you're okay, didn't find anything you couldn't handle, and you remind him you've been worse.

He's missed you. He tells you this much as he takes the duffle bag from your hand and leans in for a kiss. If he had known you'd be back tonight he would have thrown a party. Okay, so it would have only been the two of you like any other time, but there would have been cake -- chocolate, your favorite.

He goes on to tell you that dad left yesterday and that he won't be back for a couple of weeks while he hunts down a werewolf. He just finished heating up a can of Ravioli for supper that the two of you can share just as soon as he finishes checking you over.

You've just recovered from a whole lot of teaching but that doesn't stop you from blindly following Sammy when he takes your hand and leads you to the bedroom the two of you have yet to share. They moved in while you were 'hunting'. He starts stripping off the layers of clothes you are wearing, kissing at bruises and running his tongue over cuts and scrapes, salty saliva stinging just a bit on the ones that haven't healed completely yet. Every mark on your skin that he touches you remember how it got there, caused by your fathers bare fist or the buckle of his belt. Your lesson should have been learned, you swore to him it was, and yet here you stand watching as Sammy begins to undress. You've been doing this long enough to know the look in his eyes, the want in his touch, and you do nothing to discourage it.

As you continue to undress yourself where Sammy left off, you begin to wonder if there is nothing you wouldn't do if your little brother asked it of you. For the first time in years, you begin to pray to a God you no longer believe in that your baby brother never turns evil or becomes possessed because you know the answer is no, you'll always do anything he asks.

Things feel different tonight; you're not quite sure how until he lays down and pulls you on top of him. He holds your face and kisses you deep. When he breaks for air he tells you again how much he's missed you, how lonely he was without you, that he loves you and that the next time you go, he goes with you. Your head is spinning with his words and the sensations his hands and lips are causing your body. It's all so very distracting that you don't, at first, realize what it means when he takes your finger into his mouth and sucks, lapping at it with his tongue, saliva dripping from it as he pulls it out and guides it to his ass.

Your heart stops and your breath catches as your eyes shoot up and lock with his.

You've let him do this. The first time over a year ago, let him lick and stretch you, then push in slow. It hurt, but not as much as you thought it would. You still can't bring yourself to cause Sam any pain, so for the first time since all this started you shake your head no. You tell him you can't and you offer yourself up instead. He gives you that look, the one that has had you at his mercy since the day he was born, he begs you, _please Dean, I need you. _You open your mouth to protest, to tell him why you _can't_, but he interrupts and tells you how he's been getting ready for this. He's been thinking of you like this for awhile now, and since you've been gone he's been getting ready, fingering himself and wearing butt plugs, so it wouldn't hurt as much. He's old enough and he's ready, so there is nothing for you to be afraid of. He wants this.

You won't. Not this. Blowjobs and bottoming is one thing, but this? No. This changes things, makes them different, makes it all real. You go to pull away, and open your mouth in protest, but he pulls you closer and silences you with his tongue sliding into your mouth.

This is where you get a fuckin' backbone and stand up for yourself. This is where you say no and you make him listen because you're the older brother. You're still a bit bigger and stronger, and damn it, little brothers are just supposed to listen; it's in a fuckin' rulebook somewhere. But he flashes those eyes and runs a hand down your back and whispers, "_Please Dean, I need to know I'm yours."_

And that's that.

You stupid, weak, perverted son of a bitch.

You remember a demon saying once that the fires of hell really weren't that bad once you got used to them. You'll get the chance to find out for yourself.

You don't know where to start. You think back to when Sammy was in your place and you were the one waiting. You decide to follow his lead and you nod your head and lean in for a kiss, then kiss your way down his chest, tongue dipping into his belly button before you find the dip of his hipbone to lick. All that the two of you have done and he still tastes like innocence, and really, it shouldn't cause that spark deep inside of you, but it does.

His feet are on the mattress, his knees bent up; he's angling himself so you can touch him easier. He practically sobs when your tongue touches his puckered entrance with a quick lick, shaky and unsure. He calls out to God before he says your name. He's panting and pre-cum is leaking from the head of his cock and all you've done is a lick. The thought of doing this to your little brother, holding him down and licking his ass, paints a far worse picture than actually doing it. The taste is nothing like you would have expected, and the blood rush to your cock is something that surprises you, makes you dizzy. You dip in again for another lick, this time taking it more slow, experimenting, teasing. Pride fills you as Sam grabs the base of his cock to stop himself from coming, orders you to fuck him now because he can't last much longer. When your brain registers the pride, your stomach tightens with disgust – you're nothing more than a child molester in big brother's clothing. You are reminded once again that this should be where you finally call it quits, where you pull yourself away and tell Sam you can't and you won't. Not now and not ever again.

But you don't.

You're too far into this - not just tonight, but all of it - to quit now.

As you slowly ease a lube-covered finger into your brother, you remember your first time. Not the first time with Sam, but your very first time. Donna something from some piss pot town in Nebraska, both fourteen and not a clue in hell what either of you were doing. You pushed in too hard and too fast and she whimpered in pain instead of pleasure, her blood mixed in with her wetness, leaving a sickening red tinge of color on the condom as you continued to move. It was over quick, and you walked her home, but you didn't have sex again until you were fifteen. That girl had the reputation of being the school slut.

By the time the memory fades, you're three fingers in and Sammy's cock is pressed against his stomach, dark and leaking. He's writhing and panting, begging you to hurry the fuck up.

You thought you'd need some hand time (and maybe some thoughts of Jennifer Love Hewitt), but when you reach down, you're harder than you've ever been. Once again, that begs the question of what kind of sick, twisted, perverted little bitch are you? Next time you won't let Bobby help you. You'll stay in that field and let yourself bleed out because it's what a scum like you deserves. You got your second chance, you don't get a third.

You get yourself ready, fishing for a condom, when Sam grabs your hand and shakes his head no. You shiver and drop the foil packet and just reach for the lube again instead.

You line up and push into Sam, slow and easy, only moving more when he lets you know it's okay. His eyes are locked with yours and you can see the emotions flash through them with every inch you slide in deeper; you'd feel better if disgust, anger or even pain were one of them, but instead, as always, there is only love, want, and happiness staring back at you. For a brief moment, a flicker of the desire to hurt him surges through you, to bring him down to your level, to make him feel the shame and regret, to experience the self loathing that makes its home under your skin every day of your life for doing this. But it's gone as quickly as it came. You wouldn't do that to him, you'd never hurt him, and that is what got you into all this mess to start with, isn't it?

You're moving faster now, stroking him in time with your thrusts. You can read him, and you know it won't be long before he goes over the edge and takes you with him.

The devil will welcome you with open arms because as much as it turns your stomach and makes you want to cause yourself harm on principle alone, you realize you need this as much as Sammy. You're addicted to the smell and taste of your little brother, addicted to the timbre in his voice when he begs you for more.

You need help, you need some sort of cure or an exorcism, because you can't honestly be this tainted with evil on your own, can you? Not when Sammy is so full of light. You begin to wonder how all this started in the first place, if it was really Sammy who lead you down this road with nothing more than innocent eyes, shy smiles, and whispered wants, or if you didn't say or do something to make him think it's what he wanted, that all this would be the way to make you happy. Maybe it was you all along?

Sammy's hair is sticking to his forehead and his body is glistening with sweat. He leaves marks down your back as he loses himself and his come splashes on your skin. A new sensation rushes through you. You realize it's not enough to be his; you need to claim him for your very own. You need to mark him from the inside out, stamp your name on him and own him forever, and you will, because he'll never forget this moment, won't forget what it's like to feel the warmth of your come slowly leaking out of him after it's warmed his insides. It pushes you over the edge, and you reach your climax and spill into your baby brother. Taking the last of the innocence he has left. You bury your face into his neck, allowing your tears to wet his skin, and with a whisper you beg him, "_Please, Sammy… save me."_


End file.
